


Genderbent

by HallsofStone2941



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fem!Sam, Gen, Genderbending spell, Humor, No Spoilers, Probably Crack, Probably during s10, amused Crowley, fem!dean, vague timeline, womanly issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-13
Updated: 2014-09-13
Packaged: 2018-02-16 20:38:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2283780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HallsofStone2941/pseuds/HallsofStone2941
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sam and Dean are turned into women and experience some of the difficulties of living as the opposite gender. Because we have nearly 200 episodes and they still haven't done it yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Genderbent

**Author's Note:**

> IMO, we really, really, REALLY need to see Sam and Dean get turned into women. 
> 
> This wasn't meant to fit in a specific timeline, but there are a few events that place it some time after season 9

Dean awakens slowly, luxuriously, reveling in a morning that does not include a rush to shower, get breakfast, and dress as whatever government official he is pretending to be. For once, he and Sam have no pressing matters to attend to; even the "beginner level" stuff (which is what they now call a regular hunt) is not coming up on their supernatural radar. They are making their way east and south; Sam wants to visit the Gateway Arch in St. Louis (whatever), and Dean thinks that now is a good time to check in on Jodi and her "daughter".

Though he enjoys lying in bed, he can never stay there for long. The greasy steak and subpar beer he had had the night before have left a disgusting residue in his mouth that should not be allowed to exist. He keeps his eyes half-closed as he makes his way to the small bathroom, rubbing a hand across his face. He frowns momentarily at his lack of stubble - something that has not happened since he was sixteen - but the thought flits through his mind and disappears. He turns the sink tap on, cupping his hands to gather water and splashing his face to remove any lingering traces of sleep. Keeping his eyes closed, he flails briefly for a towel before finding it and drying his face with it. As he runs it over his mouth, his eyes open to meet his reflection.

"Agh!" Dean jumps back, dropping the towel. Familiar green eyes, widened by shock, stare at him in the mirror, but the face is unfamiliar.

Correction: the face looks _somewhat_ familiar, except it is, most definitely, a woman's face.

Dean creeps closer, as if expecting the woman in the mirror to jump out at him. Bringing his face nose-to-nose with the glass, he turns his head this way and that. Almost everything is the same, but the jawbone is softer, the lips slightly bigger, the brow less defined, and, oh, yes, the stubble is gone, leaving his— _the_ face smooth as a baby's bottom (not that he knows what a baby's bottom feels like). He runs his hand along his jaw, and his eyes catch on the appendage; the fingers are more slender, less blocky, but the palm has the same callouses, the same grease stains from working on Baby.

Staring at his hands leads his line of vision downward, and damn, if he does not notice the _big_ change almost immediately. Having boobs...well, to be honest, is more alarming that Dean once thought. For one, part of his body is being blocked from view, including...Dean's head snaps up, staring at his reflection in realization.

"Sammy?" he flinches at the distinctly feminine voice say his brother's name - certainly higher than any noise he had ever created, though in truth not very high for a woman. Striding quickly out of the bathroom, he shakes Sam's leg from underneath the blanket. "Sammy, get up. We have a major problem."

Sam's shaggy head appears from under the nest of blanket he had created for himself. At first, Dean does not notice the difference. But when Sam frowns and blinks groggily at him, he does a double-take.

"Holy sh—" he cannot finish his statement, too busy staring at the feminine features of his brother's face.

Sam, apparently, does not recognize him, and Dean finds himself staring at the silver barrel of Sam's handgun a mere second later. "Who are you?" Sam demands, and though his voice is, yes, higher, it is still threatening and _Sam_ enough for Dean to put his hands up.

"Easy, Sam, it's me," he says, watching the gun.

"Yeah, right," Sam replies, pulling himself up in a sitting position while pointing the gun at Dean. The movement reveals Sam's, ah, generous torso. Despite being a woman, his younger brother is still _massive_.

"Dude, trust me, it's me. Something happened, some spell or-or something."

"Yeah? Prove it."

"Poughkeepsie."

"Doesn't count. Crowley knows that one." Sam says, still staring at Dean with distrust.

"Man," Dean whines, the word coming out higher than intended. His hands fly up in an exasperated manner before falling at his sides. "I am NOT Crowley, okay? See?"

He pulls his shirt collar down, showing the still-intact anti-possession tattoo. Sam grimaces, and Dean glances down, realizing that he just showed his brother part of his...woman...stuff. Yeah, stuff works. "Dude, _look_ at me. I mean, I still look like me. Sort of." Sam stares at him for a long while, not moving, before finally resting the gun on the night stand.

"Alright. What happened?"

"I have no idea - I woke up like this. You did too, I mean..." he looks again at Sam's chest. "And you got some honkers."

* * *

"Have you looked...you know, _down there_ yet?"

"Shut up, Sam," Dean says, focusing on clasping the damn contraption on his brother's back and trying _very hard_ not to think about the fact that he is putting a bra on his brother-turned-sister. The shopping had been interesting, to say the least. They had walked into the small clothing store, eyeing everything with alarm and eventually choosing something that claimed to be "one-size-fits-all". Neither brother are sure how it is possible, but they certainly do not want to take the time to figure out what size _bra_  they wear.

"Okay, I think I got it," Dean says, turning away as soon as possible.

"Took you long enough."

"Hey, I'm used to taking them _off,_ not the other way around."

"Okay," Sam says, putting on a shirt that is now a little big for him - her? "Now what?"

"Research. We find out if anything odd has been happening in this town, if anyone has disappeared, if anyone has decided on random sex changes, any witches, any anything that could have done this. And we _do not_ leave this room until we have some idea of what's going on." And so saying, Dean grabs a beer, opens the newspaper, and begins reading.

* * *

"Anything?" Dean asks, pacing the room. He had finished the newspaper about an hour ago, with no mention of anything strange from front to back (in fact it was all eerily normal). Not wanting to leave the room, he had started pacing, much to Sam's consternation.

"No. Nothing," Sam replies, eyes still glued to the glowing screen.

Dean curses quietly, moving his hands to cross his arms. He frowns, staring down at the new obstructions. Women certainly make it look easier than it is. He moves his arms in different positions, trying to figure out how to cross them without pressing against the newly-sensitive area. He tries picking one up, then the other, pushing them around with confusion and a small amount of frustration.

"Dude, can you...stop playing with your boobs?" Sam asks, watching with an uncomfortable look on his face. Dean rolls his eyes and shoves his arms under his breasts, the position feeling all sorts of wrong.

He opens his mouth to speak again when something black appears in the corner of his eye. "Hello b—"

Crowley's expression, in any other circumstance, would be priceless. His eyes bug out as his gaze flicks between Dean, Sam, and back again, his mouth formed to ask "what?"

"I don't think it was him, Sam," Dean says, mentally crossing out one of the possibilities on their list of who-the-effing-hell-did-this-to-us.

"Dean," Crowley says slowly, pointing to Dean, and then moving his finger slowly to Sam, "Sam."

"Yeah." Sam says.

"Moose," the finger moves back to Dean, "and Squirrel."

"Yes, Crowley, it's us." Dean growls, his hands moving to his hips in irritation. Crowley's face holds the confusion for one more second before a very dangerous half-grin appears on his face. The King of Hell saunters over to a chair and sits, watching the two brothers without a word.

"Is there something you wanted or...?" Dean asks.

"Oh, I was going to mention this one thing, but this is far more entertaining. I think I'll just stay here." And the annoying bastard props his feet up and becomes as still as a statue.

"Great," Dean mutters. "Alright, I'm heading out, going to see if I can find anything."

"'Kay," Sam replies, his attention back on his computer. "Oh, uh Dean?"

Dean's head reappears from the hallway, looking at Sam.

"Don't, uh," the corner of Sam's mouth goes up for a brief second, "don't hit on anyone - at this point, it won't get you anywhere."

"What if they're like Charlie?"

"Is that really a situation you want to get yourself into?" Dean's face contorts into a grimace, and he nods in concession before leaving the room. Sam shakes his head, sighing, and continues typing at his keyboard. A chuckle emanates from the only other occupant in the room, but Sam ignores Crowley in favor of digging up any news that he can find.

* * *

"Please tell me you found something," Dean begs, slamming the door to the hotel room.

"Dean, there's nothing. I've looked three times - no strange events, no unexplained disappearances, nothing supernatural of any kind - except that. What happened?"

"Oh, this?" Dean asks, holding up the bulging bag of car-care supplies in his hand. "Yeah, some guy bought all this stuff for me, said if I ever needed help "taking care" of _my_ car, I just had to give him a call." Here he pulls out a slip of paper from his jacket, grabs his lighter, and burns it. "Yeah, he even asked if I knew it was a '67. That bastard!" Dean looks ready to throw the lighter at the window, his eyes blazing and chest heaving. "You know, just because I am a _woman_ , does not mean I don't know a thing or two about _my car_. Hell, I could probably talk engines around that guy until his head _bleeds_. I am a strong, independent woman! I don't need no man!" Dean finishes his tirade by disappearing into the bathroom and slamming the door.

Crowley, who has not moved, snickers not-so-quietly. Dean storms out of the bathroom, coming to a halt in front of the King of Hell with his arms crossed. "Something funny, Chuckles? 'Cause I fail to see how you, another sexist _bastard_ , are doing anything to help us figure out whatever this is!"

Crowley, for once, looks cowed. _Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned_ , he reminds himself. "I believe the word you're looking for is 'genderbent'." He says conversationally.

"What?"

"Genderbent. It's a term used to describe a character in a story whose gender switches from what it usually is. Most often used when the author wants to make up for the general lack of females in a given storyline."

"Then why wouldn't they write women in it in the first place?" Sam asks.

"Oh, no, you misunderstand. The _original_ author is perfectly fine with their creation. But their _fans_ sometimes write their own fiction - a story within a story, you could say - with changes made to the original work. For example," Crowley gestures to the two Winchesters. "Instead of the book series, _Supernatural_ , being about two brothers that hunt evil, they would make it into two _sisters_ that hunt evil."

"Why?" Dean says, very confused.

"For the same reason that you're upset about a man assuming you know nothing about cars. For the same reason you're embarrassed to be women." Crowley says, earning odd looks from both brothers. "What? Running a kingdom can be boring if you're doing it properly. Besides, always good to know what gets a sinner's goat."

"That still doesn't get us any closer to actually figuring out who did this."

"You know, Dean, I've been thinking. There is one thing that could do this."

"What?"

"A trickster."

Dean scoffs. "Yeah, but he's dead."

"Loki is, yes. But there are others out there - other demigods that would get a kick out of watching something like this."

"Yeah, but there's no record of anything strange going on. I mean, we're not even on one's tail. Their M.O. is to dick with the dicks - why would they bother us?"

Sam shrugs. "I don't know. But there's no lore, besides witchcraft, that could explain this, and we've already scoured the town's history and come up with nothing."

"Alright. Trickster's our working theory. Crowley, you ain't sitting there without helping," Dean demands. "Get busy or get out." Crowley shrugs and disappears.

* * *

"I am going to _fillet_ the person that did this to us," Dean grumbles, walking out of the bathroom with a disturbed expression.

"Yeah, well, first we've got to find them," Sam points out.

" _Still_ nothing?"

"Dean, I once lived through a thousand Tuesdays, watching you die on each one, before I finally found Gabriel. Tricksters know how to stay inconspicuous; it might take a while."

"Maybe we should call Cas," Dean suggests.

"Yeah. A pair of angelic eyes would be useful, at the least."

Dean bows his head and closes his eyes. "Cas, uh...It's me, Dean, by the way; in case you don't recognize my voice. Listen, Sam and I need your help, like, _a lot_. So, uh..."

"I'm here."

Dean turns around. "Cas. Thank God. Or, whoever."

"You said you needed my help?"

"Yeah - well, as you can see, we're, uh..." Dean gestures to himself.

Cas frowns and squints, assessing Dean closely. "Are you...wearing a new shirt?"

Both Sam and Dean look at Cas as if he has lost his mind.

"What? No! Cas, we've been gender-swapped!" Dean clarifies.

Cas squints again. "Ah. I see it now."

"What, are you blind?" Dean almost screeches, before wincing at the pitch of his voice.

"Not in the way you imply. Angels, we...to me, your physical forms are blurry and dark, with your souls shining through and around you in a glowing white light." Cas smiles gently while Dean looks confused. "It's fascinating to watch. Each person's soul is a little different, colored by their memories, their experiences; their current emotions. But details, such as hair and eye color, are hard to see unless we really focus. I wouldn't even know what those things are myself if I hadn't been human once, too."

"Well, that's...fascinating. We think a trickster did this. Can you help us find them?"

"Of course, I—" Cas suddenly disappears, leaving the Winchesters to look around in confusion.

"Looks like this trickster likes interfering angels about as much as the last one did," Sam guesses.

"Son of a bitch," Dean mutters.

* * *

"Well, that guy Schimick has diabetes - had to take him to the hospital and everything; do you know he was hitting on me the whole way there?" Dean scoffs and rolls his eyes as he shuts the hotel door. "Anyway, I don't think he's our guy."

"Then again, it could be the trickster trying to throw us off his scent."

"We can't go stab everyone within a mile's radius with a wooden stake, Sam, as tempting as it may be."

Sam grunts, turning his attention back to the computer screen. Dean sees that he is holding a hand against his chest.

"You alright, Sammy?"

"Yeah, they're just...sore."

Dean frowns. "Well, have you looked it up?"

"Um, according to WebMD, I may have breast cancer."

"Alright," Dean says, shutting the laptop in frustration. "Come on, I think we both need some fresh air."

They take the Impala out for a drive, passing by the station where Dean's oh-so-kind gentleman watches them pass by. Dean flips him off as he waves to the women.

"Wish I could stab _him_ ," Dean mutters, glaring at the man in his rear-view mirror. Sam snorts, flipping his head to get the hair out of his face as Dean floors the gas.

The fresh air by the river does them both some good, clearing their heads of stale hotel air and town records. They do not say much, but take to skipping rocks in the calm water. This leads to a competition, which leads to Dean tackling Sam when the younger brother wins. They wrestle, both pleased to see that, despite their new bodies, they have retained a great deal of their strength. The fight ends with Dean pinned, rocks pressing uncomfortably against his back.

"Alright, alright, get off," Dean grunts, taking the hand offered to him. They brush themselves off before climbing into the Impala, ready to reenter their work after the break.

Sam seems quiet and pensive during the ride, which confuses Dean; only minutes ago his brother had been laughing.

"Hey, what's up?"

Sam looks at him before shrugging.

"Alright," Dean concedes before looking back at Sam with a grin on his face. "Bitch."

"I'm not a bitch, Dean." Sam responds quietly.

"What? Come on, Sam, you know the drill - I'm 'jerk' and you're 'bitch'."

"Yeah, well it's a little different now, isn't it? You can't just call a woman a bitch, Dean, it's rude and oppressing."

"Dude, chill. You're not technically a woman, Sam. It doesn't matter."

"I am technically a woman, Dean! I just don't consider myself one because a few days ago, I wasn't."

"Okay. Fine. I swear, you're acting like it's that time of the month for you."

It takes several seconds before Dean's words sink in. The smile disappears from his face as he and Sam look at each other.

"Oh, God."

"No. Hell no. I am not going through...that."

"Really? This thing just had to put the bloody icing on the cake, didn't it?"

"Dean, we need to find the trickster. Tonight."

"Sam, it's like you said before: we've already looked everywhere. I think you're just going to have to...grin and bear it."

"You don't understand, Dean. When Jess had it, she was miserable for days. _I_ was miserable for days. I am not going through...whatever the hell it is."

"Come on, Sam, it can't be that bad. I mean, I'm sure you've been through worse." Dean sees a muscle in Sam's jaw tick. "Alright, I'll stop by the store. But you're going in by yourself, there's no way I'm getting close to that stuff."

"Yeah, well, if we don't find the trickster soon, you'll have to, Dean. These things come once a month, remember?"

Dean processes that information as he pulls up to the curb and lets Sam out. "Son of a bitch."

* * *

 Once they return to the hotel, Sam opens his laptop and looks something up. Ten minutes later, Dean is worried that the horrified expression on his face may become permanent.

"What?"

Sam does not answer, but eyes the feminine products from the store with no small amount of alarm. Dean grabs the laptop and reads the screen, mildly concerned when Sam does not ask for it back. His concern changes to alarm when he reads the "how-to" that Sam had apparently looked up.

"You have to what?!"

Sam still says nothing. He rises and takes the bag gingerly, as if he were handling a bomb, and disappears into the bathroom. Hours pass; by the time he comes out, Dean is already fast asleep.

* * *

Dean bursts through the door of the hotel, coffee and donuts held precariously in his hands, when he hears a pained groan emit from the room. 

"Sam! Sam, are you alright?"

"I think I'm dying," Sam groans, hands pressed against his lower abdomen. He grunts, resting his forehead against the bed as his hair falls around his head in a sweaty mess.

"What happened?"

Sam glares at Dean through the curtain of hair before turning his face back into the comforter. He flops around, body twisting uncomfortably as pained grunts escape from his mouth. Dean tries to assess the damage, but Sam is not bleeding, nor is there any evidence of a break-in or a fight.

"This is the thing, isn't it? The, um, the woman thing."

"No, I'm pretty sure I'm dying."

"Alright, um," Dean moves to a duffel bag, pulling out their emergency painkiller. "Here, take some of these, see if it helps. There's donuts here, if you want them. I'm gonna go through the town again, see if there's anything we missed. Call me if you need something."

Sam grunts again, grabbing the bottle and swallowing four pills dry. Dean opens his mouth to object, but decides against it and walks back out the door.

He finds himself in the bar, trying to wrap his mind around the fact that his brother is leaking blood onto a condensed cotton swab - nope, he needs another shot.

"Easy there, honey. It's not even ten o'clock." A man leans against the counter next to Dean, an expectant smile already on his face.

"Oh, God, not another one," Dean mutters. "Sorry, man, I don't swing that way."

A look of shock crosses the man's face, and Dean realizes his slip-up. _Though it's technically true_ , he thinks. But the guy's face clears, leaving no trace of disgust behind. _Pity. I could use a good bar fight._

"Is that what drives you to a place like this so early in the morning?"

"What?" It is Dean's turn to be shocked. The man leans in with a conspiratorial grin.

"Well, it's not exactly a secret that this town's a little low on hot women, if you get my drift."

"Hard not to," Dean replies, downing another shot. "But no, that's not my problem."

"Then what is it?"

Dean frowns, right hand creeping subtly to the demon knife in his pocket. "What's it to you?"

The man shrugs. "I'm bored, you're here," he says, sitting on the counter and placing his cheek in his hand. "It's gotta be an interesting story, especially given how much you've already had."

Dean considers before drawing his hand out of his pocket. "My brother is going through his first, ah...time of the month. I don't think it's going well." Too late, Dean recognizes his second slip-up. _Lower tolerance for alcohol now - need to watch my mouth. And my drink._ Again, the man takes several seconds to process Dean's words.

"Well, it's good to know you're supportive of your... _brother's_ choices."

Dean raises an eyebrow. "Yeah, I guess I am."

"Sorry, I'm Gabe," the man says, holding his hand out. Dean watches the hand for a moment before grasping it with his own.

"Dean," he says.

"Interesting name," Gabe muses.

"I was named after my grandmother," Dean replies, which is, technically, true.

A sound comes from somewhere on Gabe's person, and he pulls out a phone. Dean recognizes the opening guitar solo from Asia's "Heat of the Moment". Gabe answers the call and listens for a while before holding the phone away from his mouth.

"Sorry, Dean, got to cut our moment short. Have a job to keep, and all that." Gabe heads out of the bar with a smirk and a wave, phone still pressed tightly to his ear.

Dean turns back to his drink, slightly disappointed that his only chance for a conversation has walked out the door. He pays for another shot and brings the glass to his lips.

And freezes, hand paused with the shot glass pressed to his mouth.

"Son of a bitch," he says, slamming the glass down on the counter. Alcohol splashes everywhere, and the bartender gives him a dirty look, but Dean is too busy storming out the door.

He grabs "Gabe" by the shoulder, turning him around and pinning him against a car with a wooden stake to his throat.

"This wouldn't do me any good, would it, Gabriel?" The man morphs, phone disappearing, and Dean is staring face-to-face with none other than thought-to-be-dead Gabriel the Archangel of God.

"Didja miss me?" Gabriel asks, familiar smirk on his face.

"We thought you were dead! Hell, Gabe, we could have used your help these past few years."

Gabriel scoffs. "Dean, _please_. Helping's not really my style."

"No, but causing trouble is. I mean, what the hell is this all about?" Dean asks, gesturing to himself.

Gabriel snickers, which then turns into a full-on laugh. Dean glares at him. "Well, Dean, it was really a dramatic way of saying 'hey, I'm back'. Besides, watching you two run around like this, ha! Talk about comedic relief."

"Yeah, well, joke's over. You've had your laugh, now make things right!"

"Careful, Dean," Gabriel admonishes. "I could make this a _whole_ lot worse."

"For what purpose?"

"You really haven't been listening, have you?" Gabriel smiles and opens his arms wide, only to be slammed against the car once again, this time with an angel blade pressed to his throat.

"I've been through way too much to put up with this, Gabe. End it. Now." Gabriel rolls his eyes but snaps his fingers. Immediately, Dean feels himself grow taller. In the car's window, he can see his face change back to its normal shape, the stubble return, and the clothes fill out (including the annoying sweatpants he has been wearing for the past week because his jeans do not fit). Dean releases Gabriel, and a second later, the angel disappears.

Sam is lying face up on the bed when Dean returns, looking like he barely managed to survive some medieval form of torture. "You okay?"

"I will never forget. You found the trickster?"

"Yeah. And it's The Trickster." Sam frowns, looking at Dean in confusion. "Yeah, Gabriel, apparently, isn't dead. This was his way of saying hi."

Sam's head falls on his pillow, one large, hairy arm covering his face. "You notice how no one we know ever seems to _stay dead_?"

* * *

The next morning, the boys pack up all their belongings, shove their women's clothes into the garbage, and gladly leave the hotel without a second glance. But both stop and stare as they set eyes on the Impala. Which, instead of its typical, classy, smooth black paint, is now a light pink.

"SON OF A BITCH!" 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, Crowley reads the Supernatural books. How do you think he knows so much about the Winchesters? (He also reads fanfiction for blackmail)  
> 


End file.
